


she can make the bad girls good (for a weekend)

by nowrunalong



Category: Easy A (2010)
Genre: F/F, Handwaves Canon Love Interest, Post-Canon, Pre-Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowrunalong/pseuds/nowrunalong
Summary: “I’m so, so sorry I slapped you,” Marianne says.
Relationships: Marianne Bryant/Olive Penderghast
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Mild Heart Attack 2020: Short Treats Collection





	she can make the bad girls good (for a weekend)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2Nienna2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/gifts).



“I’m so, so sorry I slapped you,” Marianne says, as Olive scoops a regulation-sized portion of ice cream into a paper dish.

She isn’t getting paid enough for this—‘ _this_ ’ being the unwarranted arrival of Marianne Bryant at her place of work, although serving up sundaes at a mom & pop ice cream shop isn’t putting Olive on the fast track to becoming the next Bill Gates either.

“Okay,” Olive agrees. It’s not like she’d been losing sleep over the face-slapping thing, anyway—or the lack of Marianne in her daily life, for that matter. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.”

Marianne looks at Olive with wide eyes. “I saw your video.”

“I think everyone did,” Olive says. Most of her viewers had been vocal in their disappointment that they had missed the game to watch her _not_ take her clothes off. Olive couldn’t care less, and she told them as much.

A month later, and it was hardly a discussion point anymore, thanks to the summer vacation starting up. At long last, Olive is stepping out of the limelight and exiting stage left—not pursued by a bear, or by anything else more vicious than a few uninspired verbal jabs. Seriously, her peers would be able to craft much better insults if they even once did an assigned reading. What ever happened to disses like ‘thou art as a loathsome as a toad’?

When Shakespeare called someone a whore, at least he had the decency to tack on some descriptive imagery.

Olive returns her attention to the cup of vanilla ice cream she’s holding, eager to reach the end of this conversation. “Do you want nuts with this? Extra chocolate syrup? Mini marshmallows? You seem like a mini marshmallow person.”

“You didn't sleep with Micah,” Marianne says earnestly. “And you’re not the one who gave him…” she glances behind her to check that people aren’t listening in on her distasteful dilemma, “...you know,” she finishes in a hushed tone.

Olive raises her eyebrows. “Yeah. I know. Good riddance to him, by the way. I mean, don’t get me wrong—that whole thing with Mrs. Griffith was awful. A lot of layers of awful. But the guy’s an idiot. And he cheated on you.”

“Do you see what this means?” Marianne asks.

Rather than indulging her by guessing at God’s inevitable new plan, Olive decides swiftly that Marianne is getting the works and begins scooping every available topping onto her sundae. If Olive is going to be tied up here for longer than is strictly necessary or professional, she’s going to give herself something to do. This _is_ her job, after all, and she’d like to make it last the whole summer.

“We can be friends again!”

Marianne looks at Olive expectantly, a giant grin on her face.

“Are you sure that’s what this means?” Olive asks with some skepticism, piling chocolate chips onto Marianne’s sundae. 

“God put Micah on a different path. One that is far away from mine, because I’m not here to save some guy.”

Olive raises her eyebrows, surprised at the feminist twist to Marianne’s revelation.

“And you’re not a lost cause anymore,” Marianne continues genially.

“Wow, that is so sweet of you.”

“I know!” 

“That’s six dollars,” Olive says.

Marianne forks over the cash without hardly looking at what she’s doing. She’s too busy grinning at Olive, her shoulders quirking upward each time she renews her efforts, her smile getting brighter and brighter like something solar-powered firing up as the clouds part above it.

“So I’ll see you later, girlie?” Marianne asks, accepting the loaded sundae with both hands.

“Um,” Olive says. She looks back at Marianne in all of her insufferable, righteous cheer. She wants to make up some excuse, but Marianne’s smile is infectious, like a noxious worm—how’s that for creative imagery?—that wriggles up Olive’s spine til it reaches her faces and forces an answering smile. _Ugh_ , she thinks. Out loud she says, “Uh, well my shift ends at four-thirty?”

Marianne beams. “Yay!”

Without the counter between them, Olive would be smothered in Marianne by now, the sticky sweet smell of strawberry shampoo invading her personal space and clinging to her t-shirt like a wine stain. If she sees Marianne later, she’ll be agreeing to an endless stream of strawberry-scented embraces that seem to start and stop for no discernible reason.

(Not that the hugs are terrible to endure. Not that strawberry isn't one of Olive's favourite scents.) 

Olive shrugs to herself. It’s summertime, and the only activity she'd planned for this wild Friday night was dancing alone to Simple Minds hits or playing Pictionary with Chip.

She gives Marianne a thumbs up.


End file.
